


Little Bird

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Autism, Autistic Character, Autistic Riza Hawkeye, Back burning, Character Study, Childhood Friends, F/M, Fluff, Ishval Civil War, Riza-centric, and roy being a dork, at least you get black hayate out of this, look .. look. i couldnt do a riza character study and not make her autistic, okay ?? i couldnt do it, so yall are just gonna have to bear with me, starts in childhood and goes post canon, there's ........... a lot of roy for this being a riza character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 02:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15133310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: The monster in her chest snaps and snarls, and Riza keeps it carefully contained behind her ribs. It'll be unleashed on the world in it's time, but not this day.





	Little Bird

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fma fic!! ;; of course its going to be a riza character study, and of course its going to be autistic fic. thank you so much to agentcalliope for being my muse and my cheerleader and for making me watch fma in the first place

“You’re an odd one, you know that?”

 

\---

 

There’s a bird in the tree outside. It’s across the backyard, all the way out by the fence. It’s a beautiful bird—grey and red dappled on its feathers; inky, beady eyes. There’s a worm trapped in its bright orange beak, and it squirms, but can’t break free.

Riza’s eyes are locked on the movement. Her whole world is focused down to the wriggling worm and the sun gleaming off the bird’s dappled feathers. The sound of her father’s pen on his papers has been lost, the chill of her father’s study gone. The worm wiggles. The bird hops along its branch. Riza could watch it all day.

She almost screeches when the hand clamps down around her wrist.

“Stop waving your arms like that,” her father says, in a tone that she can’t place. She hadn’t realized she was moving her arms in the first place. “I’ve told you that before. I don’t like when you do that.”

Her arms drop slowly from next to her head. She knots her fingers in front of her, then turns back to the window.

“What are you looking at, anyway?”

He leans sideways from his desk to look outside.

Riza points.

He squints at the scene, but doesn’t seem to find anything. After a moment, he shakes his head and goes back to his papers. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, Riza.”

She looks at him expectantly.

“I’m taking on a student. A young boy by the name of Roy. He’s fourteen—not much older than you. He’ll be living with us while I teach him alchemy.”

Fourteen? At ten, Riza finds fourteen to be very old. Not impossibly old, like her father, or the nice woman at the library. But far older than Riza. Riza’s met fourteen-year-olds. They’re huge, and mean. They bully her at school—holding things out of her reach, calling her names, making the other children gang up on her during sports. What if this Roy was the same? Children don’t like her, Riza knows this. Adults find her odd but charming, most of the time. But her classmates did their best to avoid her on the good days, and make her life miserable on the bad.

What if her father was bringing another bully into her life? Right into her home?

“No,” she says.

Her father looks at her sharply. “No? I wasn’t asking permission, Riza.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “No,” she repeats, the only word she can find.

The chair scrapes against the floor as her father stands, and it’s an awful sound. “Riza Elizabeth Hawkeye, this is not up for debate. Now behave yourself, he’s going to be here soon.”

Soon? How soon? Riza’s heart thuds, tears stinging at her eyes. “No!” she screams, an expression of anguish more than an attempt to change his mind.

His hand wraps around her wrist again, and Riza rockets back from him. Her back finds the wall, and she slides down it, hands coming up to clamp over her ears. She hears nothing past her cupped palms until the door slams shut.

How could he do this to her? He knows what trouble the other children give her. He was just introducing another rotten variable into her life. Another little torment in her day to day. Now she had nowhere to escape to. School wasn’t safe. Home wouldn’t be safe.

Something growls and yips and scratches inside her ribs. She does everything she can to hold it back. Her tears don’t fall, her mouth doesn’t whimper. She presses her hands tighter against her head, and listens to the _whoosh_ of molecules between her skin.

She gets lost in the sound. In the feeling of her hands squeezing against her head. She counts her breaths, in and out, and eventually the feeling in her chest settles, and her eyes no longer sting. She begins to formulate a plan in her head. She could run away. She’ll go to the librarian first, because the library has a lot of books that involve people running away from home, so surely, she’d know what to do. Maybe she could get the fruit salesman to smuggle her out in his big cart. Then she could go to another city, and be a different person. She’d never tried being a different person before. She’d always been herself, so much so that it was almost painful.

Eventually, her hands drop down to her knees. Her eyes slip open. She feels tired. Exhausted, really.

She blinks, rubs her eyes, and sluggishly draws her head up—then stops.

There’s a boy sitting in the study. On the floor, like her, about halfway across the small room. He’s staring down at the book in his lap.

She must make some sort of noise, because his head whips up to look at her. He has dark eyes, a head full of shaggy, black hair, and his cheeks plump up like red apples when he smiles at her. He doesn’t look scary, Riza thinks. He’s definitely bigger than her, but not by so much that she wouldn’t take him down with a well-placed kick.

“Hi,” he says, and she likes that his voice isn’t very loud. “I’m Roy.”

She nods, swallowing.

“You’re Riza, right?”

She nods again.

“I like your hair.”

Riza tilts her head down and toys a lock of blond hair between her fingers, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

“Oh!” he says, and Riza jumps a little bit. “This is for you.” He holds up the book. “I was going to give it to you when I got here, but you seemed like you needed a little time. One of my sisters got it for you. Do you want to look at it with me?”

Riza wrings her hands behind her knees. Slowly, she scoots across the floor until she’s a foot away from the dark-haired boy.

“It’s an animal book,” he explains. “It has a lot of kinds. This one’s my favorite.” He lays the book back on the ground and taps the page he had it opened to. There’s a big cat drawn on the page, muscled and spotted. “Which ones do you like?”

She flips through a couple pages. This seems to be the mammal section. The illustrations are well-crafted, with detailed, shaded drawings. They aren’t in color, but that’s okay. She flips a little further through the book. Then she finds it. Her hands come up to her face, and she laughs.

The bird she’d seen outside is illustrated on the page—it’s feathers dappled, beak shiny. The Dappled Cowbird, it’s called. She taps excitedly on the page.

Roy laughs. “You like birds, huh? That’s neat.”

“Outside!” she says.

He blinks at her. “What?”

“There was one outside! Come on!” She grabs his wrist and tugs him through the door. The book is left, but not forgotten, on the wooden floorboards.

(Of course, they scare away the bird trying to climb the tree to get a closer look. Roy doesn’t even fall out, even though they go up high. Riza’s impressed.)

 

\---

 

Riza sighs.

“What?” Roy intones, not looking up from his book.

“What?” Riza responds.

He marks his page and finally looks up at her. He looks a little annoyed, Riza thinks. She thinks that’s what his face is saying. “You’ve sighed like four times now.”

“Have not.”

“You definitely have.”

Riza’s lips twist, and she goes back to twirling her hair between her fingers. It’s almost to her back now. She slouches further in the plush, leather chair, her feet dangling over the side. She used to be able to curl up on this chair so easily. But she had a growth-spurt a few months ago. She was happy about it, since she was going to be 13 soon, and she didn’t want to be that small forever. But all her hiding spots no longer fit comfortably around her.

“What would you think if I cut my hair?” she blurts. She risks a glance at him. He looks startled by the question.

“I love your hair,” he says, pouting.

“It’s too long. It’s annoying.”

Roy abandons his seat and plops onto the coffee table in front of her. He reaches out to grab a lock of her hair, and brushes it under her nose. She pushes him away.

“How short would you cut it?”

“I don’t know,” she says. She looks away from him. “Short. Like yours.”

“I have boy hair,” he says.

“I don’t think my hair cares that I’m a girl.”

He huffs a laugh. “Fair. You gonna ask your dad?”

She pauses, then shakes her head. “I’m going to do it before he gets home.”

Roy holds up his hands, then goes to sit back at the desk with his book. “Suit yourself. But if he’s mad, you can’t drag me into it.”

Riza rises and makes her way to the bathroom. There’s a pair of scissors in the drawer. She tests them against her thumb, and they seem sharp enough. She grabs a section of hair, and holds the open scissors against it. She waits for her fingers to draw the blades closed, but they don’t.

She stomps back into the study, and holds the scissors out. “I can’t do it. You do it.”

“No,” Roy says, not looking up from his book. “I just said you’re not dragging me into it.”

She bites the inside of her lip. “Please?” It escapes quieter than she means it to.

He makes a show of marking his page again, and closing the book. He twists in his chair to look at her, one arm propped on the chair back. He studies her, and she stares back.

“If Master Hawkeye asks who cut your hair, what are you going to say?”

“That I did it myself.”

He plucks the scissors from her hand, and ruffles her hair with the other as he stands and passes her. “Good answer.”

They find a stool they can sit in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Riza straightens her back as she sits on it, both of them studying her in the mirror. He twirls the edges of her hair between his fingers.

“So we’re going short-short.”

“Mhmm,” she says.

Roy huffs out a sigh, and nods. He separates a chunk of her hair, and shears it right below her jawline.

Riza flinches. She didn’t expect the scissors to be so loud.

“You okay?” he asks.

She knits her hands together, squeezing her fingers, and nods.

Roy gets back to work, making an even line around her jaw and past her neck. The scissors are making the most horrible noise, and after a few snips Riza can’t help but let her hands fly to her ears to try and block the sound.

“Hey!” Roy shouts. He yanks the scissors away. “You can’t do that. I almost cut you.”

Riza’s hands shake as she forces them back to her lap. “It’s loud.”

Roy tugs on the side of her hair that’s newly cropped. “They’re just scissors, girly-girl.”

She reaches back and smacks at him. “Don’t call me that.”

He doesn’t respond, examining the rest of her uncut hair. He sits the scissors down on the counter, and leaves.

She furrows her brows and leans back on her stool, peeking around the corner. But he’s disappeared into another room.

Softly at first, the music begins to play. It soon grows louder, far louder than her father ever would allow them to play it.

He reenters the bathroom, and she gives him a quizzical look in the mirror. He picks up the scissors, and opens and closes them a few times next to her ear. The sound is mostly drowned out by the melody from the other room.

“Better?” he asks.

She nods.

He gets back to work. He goes slowly, cutting a few snips, then reconsidering in the mirror. It starts as a hum—of course he’d pick his favorite song to play over the gramophone. It’s an old machine, emitting a creaky, reedy sound. But he listens to it whenever he can. He grew up with music, he hates the constant silence of the Hawkeye household.

The hum morphs into mumbled lyrics. Riza’s lips twitch as he sings under his breath, snipping away at her hair. She studies herself in the mirror as he does. It’s not terrible, all-told, considering he’s never done this before. He crops the hair on her neck close. He leaves most of her bangs in the front, holding them over her head to trim the ends. But the sides are fairly short, and only a little longer on the top. When he’s done, he sets the scissors on the counter, and huffs a nervous laugh.

“If you hate it, we can always buy a wig.”

She turns her head, inspecting herself in the mirror. It’s not bad. She rather likes it, actually. More and more the longer she looks at it. Her lips spread in a grin, and her hands flap by the sides of her face for just a moment before she stops them.

“Good, then?” he asks.

Riza nods. “Good.”

He holds out a hand, and Riza takes it with a suspicious look. He pulls her off the stool and spins her under his arm just as the song gets to his favorite part—Riza spins awkwardly and stumbles against the stool, and then he’s crooning out the lyrics as loud as he can, and god he sounds _horrible_ , and Riza can’t help but laugh.

 

\---

 

Riza’s back burns.

It’s a phantom pain. There’s nothing wrong with her back. The tattoo had stopped itching weeks ago—it’d healed well, no scarring at all. But every once in a while, it just … feels like it’s burning. Searing and scorching her skin, right down to her spine.

Riza slides a hand under the back of her shirt. The skin is cool under her fingers.

“Riza,” Roy says again.

She looks up at him. “Yes?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

She stares for a moment, then nods.

He watches her with his head tilted down. She’s not sure how to read that. “And you’re … okay?”

She looks away, out the window. The sky is blue outside and the clouds are bright white—the sun is illuminating the swaying leaves on the trees so they’re almost yellow. It’s a perfectly peaceful scene.

She’s not sure how to respond. She doesn’t know what he wants from her. Before, she would’ve known what he wanted. She would’ve known what the right and wrong answer was. But Roy is different now. He’s older. She hasn’t seen him in a while. He’s a good little soldier now, and he seems changed. His arms are muscular, and his face is thinner. But that’s not all. His eyes are different. Harder.

Does he want her to be okay? She would want him to be okay, if the situation was reversed. She always wants him to be okay. But she doesn’t know if that’s the appropriate emotional reaction. She feels like he’s expecting her not to be okay, like maybe that’s what’s necessary here. So, she gives a little nod and says, “I will be,” which she feels is the safest response.

He sighs, and she looks back at him. He has his elbows propped on his knees, hair obscuring his downcast face. “You don’t have to lie to me,” he says.

Riza swallows, and squeezes her forearms with the opposite hands. “I’m not sure what you want from me,” she admits.

When he looks back up, he looks sad. She thinks ‘sad’ is the right emotion to name.

“Do you want to see it? My father’s research? Is that why you’re still here?”

His head shakes. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Would asking him why be rude? She thinks it might be. So she nods, and looks back at the desk to her right. There are papers scattered over it—her father’s last will and testimony, pamphlets about caskets, the deed to the grave plot. It’s not like she hasn’t been preparing for this. She slides her fingers along one of the papers, toying the edge with her thumb.

“I need to start planning the funeral,” she says.

“I can help.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Riza nods. “Okay.”

She feels like there’s a million miles between them. It didn’t used to be this way. He used to be her best friend, and now she doesn’t know how to act around him. There’s a distance there that she never wanted them to have, a distance she’d felt with everyone else in the world but him. She thought they’d left that behind long ago.

“Roy,” she says. “I can still show you … after.”

 He watches her sharply. “Only if you want to.”

Her back burns.

“I do.”

 

\---

 

She hadn’t been close. But god, it had _burned_.

She barely makes it back to her tent before collapsing. Her uniform is clinging to her skin with sweat, and she doesn’t think it’s because of the Ishvalan heat. Her tailbone finds the ground as she stumbles backwards and falls not far from her bunk. There’s no one else in there, luckily. It’s the middle of the day. People are on the battlefield or scraping together whatever they can of a shower-and-lunch.

She knows her breath is coming too quick. This isn’t fitting of a soldier. And Riza is a soldier now. She should be better than this.

She mashes her lips together and bites them, but then her breath just comes racing through her nose. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she presses her hands against her forehead. Sand grits against sweat-streaked skin. It feels disgusting. And her hands keep shaking, and the little bits of sand are going to leave hair-thin scratches on her forehead. She yanks them away and scrubs her palms over her pants, but then again, those are covered in sand and dirt and blood anyway.

Her palms are pink when she pulls them away. Whether from the friction or something else, she doesn’t know.

She can still smell it. She’d been far enough away, but she’d been downwind. It was unmistakable.

It’s not like you forget what burning flesh smells like.

She’d heard the ignition first. She’d found the scene with her scope second. The bodies on the ground, quickly turning black in the flames. The buildings crumbling around them. And there, at the end of the street, arm raised, fingers posed as if to snap again—Roy Mustang.

A shiver wracks through her. Something inside of her growls.

He’d looked … She’s not sure how to describe it. She’s not good with emotions, hers or other people’s, but there were so many things warring on his face that she’s not sure any one person would’ve been able to name them all. Self-hatred. Disgust. Resignation. Something feral.

She’d never seen him look like that before.

Is this what she had made him? She remembers the bright-eyed boy who’d come to study under her father, ever-eager, always looking for someone to protect. She wonders where he’d gone. If that boy was just another casualty in this war. She remembers her shirt dropping to the floor, looking over her shoulder to see his eyes scraping over the pattern tattooed on her back. He’d seemed … hungry. She’d felt that fear then, the fear she’s feeling right now. The fear that she’d made the wrong choice.

It had been so far away, but she swears she felt the flames against her cheeks.

Her breath hitches. Suddenly she can’t take in any air. Her teeth tremble and her eyes sting and her skin is so grainy and _god_. God, it’s all too much. She finally manages to take in a raw gasp of air, but it’s so hot and dry that she feels she doesn’t get any oxygen.

Is this what she made him?

Her stomach clenches like she’s about to heave. She swallows down the acrid taste in the back of her throat, fingers tangling in her hair. Her mind replays it over and over—the snap, the ignition. The charcoal figures with gaping mouths and clawing hands. The look in his eye that she’d never seen on a face that human.

She topples forward, presses her face into the dirt, and screams.

 

\---

 

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about today, Riza?”

She hates that he uses her first name. Like he knows her. Like he knows anything about her.

Her hands are deadly still, poised over her crossed legs. She wants to bounce them, or fidget with her fingers, or put her hands over her ears and scream and scream and _scream_. But she doesn’t. She sits, immobile, and makes sure to look him right in the eye.

_Don’t go acting like that around those doctor types, Riza_ , her father used to say. _They see you acting like that, they’ll put you right in the madhouse_.

“No, Dr. Wagner.”

Dr. Wagner nods, and writes something on his paper. She gets an “R” and a “t” from the way his hand moves, but that’s all. He looks back up.

“My patients, the ones who never talk … Well, I can’t help them, you see, Riza. And they don’t usually end up too well.”

Riza nods, and wishes she had a tablet of paper so she could take notes on him, too. “I understand, Doctor.”

“Does that change your previous answer at all?”

“It doesn’t.”

“I see.”

He writes something else. Riza turns and looks at the wall, where she wishes there was a window. He follows her gaze, but thankfully doesn’t write anything down.

The doctor sighs. “After Ishval,” he starts, and she reluctantly turns back to face him, “there are a lot of hurting soldiers. A lot of good men and women who feel lost. A little broken. No one would blame you if you were feeling the same way. No one would look down on you for it.”

_I would_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say. _I deserve it_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say.

Her fingers are thrumming with so much energy that she wants to pull out her gun and blow them off.

Not that she should act on that in front of the good doctor.

“I understand.”

Dr. Wagner shifts, and crosses his arms over his chest. Defensive position, Riza thinks. “What is it you want out of this session, Riza?”

Riza considers whether telling the truth is beating a dead horse. Well—the real truth is that she doesn’t want to be here at all. If she could take nothing of his time or resources, that would be the preferable option. Men like him set out to heal, and she doesn’t deserve healing. She doesn’t want it.

But … there is one thing she does want.

“I’d like to be assigned under Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, Doctor.”

He shifts backwards and considers her from behind his glasses. “That’s not quite what I meant.”

“You asked me what I wanted.”

“Indeed.” It comes out almost as a sigh. “Let’s talk about that, then. You brought this up last time as well. And the time before. Why is it you want to be assigned to him?”

Her eyes drop to her hands. She can’t help but wring them together. Not moving is killing her. She squeezes her fingers between each other and digs into her knuckles. She pushes them against her kneecap and strains them as hard as she can.

“Riza.”

She doesn’t look up.

Dr. Wagner takes a deep breath in, but the exhale is silent. He flips through his papers and adjusts his glasses. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know you’ve already been assigned to his command.”

Her eyes slip closed. Her hands go slack. She feels like she’s tumbling, or maybe soaring, or maybe like something is broken. Something in her chest that’s going to escape her one day. She’s not sure. There’s just a lot of it. She nods. “May I be excused, Doctor?”

“We still have a little time left.”

“I know.”

She hears the _tap tap tap_ of his pen on his tablet. “Very well. Until next time, Riza.”

She gathers up her things and leaves without another word.

She stops short as the door closes behind her.

There are a few people in the waiting area. A few people she vaguely recognizes. Haggard looking people. And one boy—man—hunched over in his chair, elbows on his knees, fingers knitted together. His black hair obscures his face, but there’s no mistaking who it is.

He looks up as the door clicks shut. His eyes have purple bags beneath them. His cheeks look shallow. His skin is more tanned than it looked out in the Ishvalan sun. But he looks just as broken.

The image stays in her mind long after she’s turned and fled down the hallway.

 

\---

 

She’s been pacing all day.

She can’t help it. She needs the steady tap of the tiled floor under her boots. She wants to wring her hands, or brush her palm over the short hairs on the back of her neck. She wants to get this energy out. This wanton energy that swirls in her chest, a monster that huffs and growls and scratches at her ribcage. If she doesn’t get it out she might burst. But she can’t. So she paces. Around the office, then back. Past Fuery’s desk, then Breda’s, then around again. She doesn’t stray by the Lieutenant Colonel’s side of the room.

She holds her clipboard in front of her, her pen tapping again and again on her lip. The others in the office watch her steady U-shaped trek around the edges of the room.

“Hey, Hawkeye,” Breda says, and Riza stops. She pretends to look at her papers for another few seconds, as if she’s actually been paying attention to them, and then meets his eyes. “We’re gonna get a beer at _Mackie’s_. You wanna join in?”

Riza considers it for a solid few seconds. The monster in her chest rumbles, and she shakes her head. “I need to talk to the Colonel about something.”

The scratch of Roy’s pen on his documents is so steady it’s almost pointed.

Breda waves a hand. “Suit yourself. If you get done early, you can meet us there. First one’s on me.”

She forces her lips to smile and her eyes not to stray from him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The rest of them pack up their desks and shuffle out. The door swings shut, and their voices carry down the hall, then disappear. She’s left in the silence. She studies the wooden door as if going through it might give her answers, all the answers she seeks. She doesn’t realize she’s been humming, nervous and low, until Roy’s throat clears. She stops, but doesn’t turn to look at him.

“You wanted to speak to me, Officer?”

She doesn’t want to face him. This whole conversation would be easier if she never had to see him. But the monster in her chest drools and snarls and she turns sharply to look at him.

“May I walk you home, Colonel?”

Roy’s pen taps the desk as he watches her. Eventually, he smiles. “Planning on jumping me in a shadowy alleyway?”

“Something like that, Colonel.”

The smile drops. “That’s not very comforting, Officer Hawkeye.”

She stares, steady. “Wasn’t meant to be, sir.”

His lips twist as he stares back, before he finally lifts one shoulder in a little shrug. She locks her papers away and grabs her coat as he shuffles around the documents on his desk, surely procrastinating. But eventually they’re both out the door, boots drumming down the hallway.

The air is cold outside. Roy shivers as soon as they exit. She’s always found it funny how cold he runs. His hands always feel frozen to the bone.

“Nice night,” he remarks dryly, gaze turned up to the heavens.

Her chest is flushed so hot that she wonders if she doesn’t have a little bit of flame alchemist in her after all.

(She doesn’t. She won’t.)

“I need to talk to you about something.”

He keeps his eyes up, but nods. “So I’d heard.”

They walk down to the corner, and turn towards his apartment. It’s not a far walk, but enough time for them to discuss this, Riza thinks.

The city is quiet around them. The bars are far enough away that there aren’t many people wandering this area. It’s mostly officers leaving the command center, wandering back to their little burrows to sleep through the weekend. Riza waits until they’re far enough away that no one will overhear them, tucked in between two closed stores on a street no one else is wandering.

She stops, and Roy stops beside her.

She tries to force herself to look into his eyes, but his chin is far more inviting. It’s not so piercing, so concerned. “I told a few people that I wasn’t feeling well today,” she informs him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“I’m feeling fine,” she says. She risks a glance to his eyes, and finds confusion. Her gaze finds her knotted hands, then his chest. “I wanted to make it believable if I took some time off for sick leave in the coming week.”

She can see him blink from her peripherals, his eyes more narrow than usual. “And why would you be needing that?”

The monster snaps. She barely manages to keep it held back.

She meets his eyes, still narrowed in suspicion. Her fingers clench together as she says, “I’m not willing to carry this burden anymore. It’s been months since you promised me, sir. I’m still waiting for you to keep your word. I want you to do it tomorrow.”

It doesn’t take long for his eyes to fall shut, for his brows to knit together. He rubs a gloveless hand over the pinched bridge of his nose, then props his hands on his hips. He stares down at the cracked cement of the sidewalk.

“Officer Hawkeye,” he says, and she feels the cold distance to his words like a punch to the gut, “that’s not something I’m going to be able to do.”

She bites her tongue with her back teeth. The monster stirs and yowls and pushes at her ribs so hard she’s sure there’ll be bruising from the inside. “You promised,” she says.

“I know. I know, but look—”

“You promised me,” she says again.

“Think about what you’re asking me to do,” he snaps, looking up at her. “Who would be able to do that? What kind of person would I be if I hurt you like that? Be reasonable about this, Officer—”

“You bastard!”

She doesn’t realize she’s shoved him until his back _thunk_ s against the streetlamp. The monster is loose, and she can’t do anything to stop it now. Roy stares back at her wide-eyed.

“You bastard, you _promised!_ ” 

“Hawkeye—”

She can’t help the frustrated yell that tears from her chest. She shuts her eyes, fists finding the sides of her head with a little too much force. She won’t cry in front of him. If she can control anything at this point, it’ll be that. Her body is buzzing and her head and heart pound in time. Her ribs have been forced open from the inside, and now all her soft guts are exposed for him and the world to see. He promised. He _promised_ her, damn him to hell and back. Her fists pound against her skull again, then once more. She can feel her throat vibrating, but her ears are ringing so loud she’s not sure if she’s making a noise or not. Her fingers find purchase in her short, blond hair.

And are pulled away by two cold hands.

“Riza,” he says.

Her eyes burn when she opens them, but there are no tears. Her wrists escape his grasp only to shove him away again.

She wants to say something. Some scathing remark that’ll really put him in his place. But the resigned look in his eye says he already knows. He’s betrayed her. He understands that.

And it’s not like her words are working anyway.

He opens his mouth to speak, but she’s already gone. She hopes he knows better than to follow. And even if he tried, it’s not like he’d be able to catch her.

He _promised_.

She loathes people who break their promises. She never thought it’d be him.

(He’s leaning on the wall across from her apartment the next morning when she opens the door to get the paper. He looks like he’s been there for a while, too afraid to knock. The finger of one ignition glove peeks out of his pocket. She lets him in. Of course she does. Because she’s hurt and mad and confused, but he’s here, and that’s not nothing. If he wants to atone his betrayal by freeing her of this burden, she’ll let him. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to forget.) 

 

\---

 

She walks into the office a week and a half later, uniform covering the bandages wrapped around her torso. She stops when all eyes find her in the doorway.

“Officer,” Roy says. The others are silent. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, sir,” she lies smoothly.

She takes a seat at her desk, and doesn’t sit all the way back against the chair.

 

\---

 

“Second Lieutenant Hawkeye,” Roy says, raising his glass. Falman cheers. Breda drums on the table and hoots. “A promotion well-deserved.”

Riza raises her shot glass to her lips, making sure to cover just enough of her mouth that they can still see her smile.

“Shot!” Havoc cries, slamming a hand down so hard on the wooden tabletop that all the beers slosh.

Riza tips her head back and downs the liquid in one gulp.

The group hollers. She gets a few rough pats to the back. There’s grins all around, and she forces herself to smile again.

“How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”

“Great, sir,” she lies smoothly. She doesn’t look him in the eye, but she still sees his smile drop.

 

\---

 

Fuery had been ecstatic.

“You’ll really take him?” he’d said, and she’d nodded.

“Of course.” She loved dogs. Not as much as she loved birds, but she did.

The dog yips as it scratches at the floorboards of her apartment. He’s a tiny thing. Not yet full-grown. She’s not sure how big he’s going to get, but his paws aren’t very large. Chances are he’ll be more lapdog sized than the kind of dog she’s used to.

“Black Hayate,” she says, and whistles. The dog ignores her. “Not a very obedient one, are you? We’ll work on that.”

The dog’s tongue finds the wall.

“Hmm.”

His head whips up when there’s a knock on the door. Riza’s brows furrow, but she gets up to answer it.

Roy’s on the other side, grinning and holding a paper bag.

Black Hayate yips and dashes for the door.

“No,” Riza says, voice deadly serious.

The dog stops.

Their staring match is broken by Roy’s laugh. “Poor bastard’s whipped already.”

She turns back after making sure the dog isn’t going anywhere. “Did you need something, sir?”

“Just a little gift. For the dog, not you. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He pushes past her into the apartment, leaning down to pat the dog on the head. She closes the door behind him, locking all three bolts.

“Figured you wouldn’t buy the poor thing any toys. Does he even have a bed? He’s gonna need a bed-Anyway.” He shakes his head. “Just got him a few things. One with a squeaker, just to drive you nuts. A couple bones from the deli. It’s not much, but it’ll get you through the first week without bite marks all over your arms.”

Her hands find each other behind her back, and she nods. “Thank you, sir.”

He shoots her a look, then rummages through the bag. He tugs out a worn stuffed animal. It looks like he might’ve gotten it at a consignment shop. He grins, and shoves it towards her face.

“It’s going to be destroyed before the day is done, but look how cute it is now.”

“Very cute, sir.”

The toy drops. When his face is revealed, he’s pouting at her. “You have a puppy, now. Isn’t that supposed to bring out the soft, maternal side of you?”

She almost smiles at that, but she won’t give him the satisfaction.

He shrugs. “Oh well. I’ll just tell everyone at work that you _ooh_ ’d and _aww_ ’d over everything he did. And if that’s the way I remember it, then that’s just what happened.”

She rolls her eyes. Roy drops down into a squat and holds the stuffed animal out to Black Hayate. The dog sniffs at it before taking it in his mouth and giving it a good shake. Riza is surprised when it makes a noise—there must be a bell in it—but not as surprised as Black Hayate. He freezes, legs spread, tail pointed up. Then he shakes it again. The toy jingles softly.

The dog rears his head back and then takes off in a sprint, doing a couple big loops around the apartment, then smaller circles. Riza can’t help it. She laughs. A head-back, belly laugh. She doesn’t catch her hands before they rise and flap at her sides.

When she gets herself under control—the laugh stifled, but still grinning—Roy is smiling at her.

“That’s more like it, girly-girl.”

Riza rolls her eyes and scoffs, but she can’t contain the smile still on her lips. “Haven’t heard that in a while. It’s hardly professional, sir.”

“What can I say?” Roy shrugs. “I call it like I see it.”

(If there’s salt in his coffee the next morning, she would deny having any part of it. But there’s a neatly-written thank-you note next to it, and really, doesn’t that balance it out in the end?)

 

\---

 

“It can’t be.” Her voice shakes, and she hates it. “You didn’t.” Her hands shake, and she hates that more.

Lust grins, and laughs.

The monster in Riza’s chest roars. How she wishes it was real. Some real horror for her to unleash, to let loose on the world to reap destruction at her choosing. Her yell isn’t enough. The bullets spraying from her gun and then the next aren’t enough. The monster claws and bites and fights to escape, and surely all of Riza’s organs are going to be destroyed. Surely, when this is over, they’ll be nothing left of her. If there was anything, it would be a disservice. She’ll let herself be destroyed, here in this moment, as a testament to her unholy anguish.

She could never put a shape to it—the monster. She’d always imagined it as an abomination of fangs and claws and inky eyes. Something that would destroy her from the inside out without hesitation.

Riza can almost feel the shape of it, as her knees knock into the ground. The tears stream down her face as she chokes out sobs.

It feels like a bird. A little bird with a broken wing. It sings its pain into her chest, and Riza weeps.

 

\---

 

“She sure is an odd one.” “Definitely a peculiar kind of gal. Never really smiles, you notice?” “It’s a little eerie. No emotion at all, really.” “No wonder the Führer’s keeping such a close eye on her. Might go postal, that one.”

Riza pretends not to hear these whispers as she marches down the hall, just behind and to the right of Führer Bradley. She’s sure he hears them, but he gives no indication.

She’s not too worried about her behavior around the Führer. She’d put all her little oddities under lock and key long ago. If the others read her as cold, so be it. It’s better than the alternative. Doctors weren’t the only ones her father warned her to be careful around.

They get back to the Führer’s office, and she shuts the door behind them. He pauses before sitting at his desk, lifting up and inspecting a photo of his young son. He angles it towards her before he sets it back down.

“Very cute picture, sir,” she says.

He nods, as if this was the right answer, and sits. He steeples his fingers, elbows propped on the desk, and lets his conjoined hands rest against his lips.

“I love my son,” he says, and the words startle her.

She nods. “Of course, sir—”

“But he can be quite the odd boy, sometimes,” he continues. “Always flapping his hands about when he gets excited. Covers his ears even when the noise level isn’t too loud. Gets these obsessions in his head and doesn’t let them go.” He turns a knowing eye on Riza. “Tell me, Lieutenant, doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

Riza is glad her long hair covers the few beads of sweat that trickle down her neck. The Führer watches her critically.

“I don’t have much experience with children,” she says.

The Führer stares, fingers still steepled, then nods.

“Some tea, Lieutenant.”

“Right away, sir.”

Her hands barely shake as she prepares the teacups.

 

\---

 

Elicia flaps her hands by her head when she’s happy about something.

Fuery always has to line up everything on his desk before leaving for the night.

Al, since he’s gotten his body back, tends to cover his ears when confronted with new stimuli.

Maria never makes eye contact in emotional situations.

Winry can pace and talk about automail for hours without interruption.

It’s little things like this that Riza notices about people. It’s little things like this that stick in her head long after the day has fallen to night, as she lies on her bed and wonders when she left all that loneliness behind.

She wrings her fingers in front of her, squeezing them between each other, digging her finger pads into each knuckle. The street is busy below the window. Everyone is winding down from the celebration. A few birds flit from tree to tree, and her eyes follow them. Common pigeons. She thinks they’re beautiful.

“You’re an odd one, you know that, Major Hawkeye?”

Riza turns. Roy pours two fingers of brandy into one glass, and then another. His face pinches when he takes the first sip. He doesn’t even like brandy, but it had been a gift from Hughes a long time back. He’d been saving it for something special, all this time.

Riza walks over to his broad desk, letting her eyes linger on the photos of them both displayed on it. There’s one from when they were teenagers—grainy, the colors not quite right. And another from not long ago. She’s not even smiling. But that’s the photo he’d chosen. She picks up her glass.

“What makes you say so, sir?”

He leans back his chair, and grimaces through another sip. “Well, today is supposed to be one of celebration. But you’ve been staring out the window all day.”

She looks down into the amber liquid, swirling it in her glass. “Just a little overwhelmed, that’s all, sir.”

His laugh echoes in his glass. “I know what you mean.” He takes a sip, and tries to cough out the taste subtly. “Anything in particular on your mind?”

She can’t help but wander back towards the window. People are laughing and shouting on the street. The shops have been closed for the day. The whole country seems to be joining in on the revelries.

“Do you think …” The brandy burns as it slides down her throat. “Do you think, should I have children one day … that they would end up like me?”

He considers her, fingers tapping on his glass. “I should think so.”

She nods, still staring down at the street. “Do you think that would be a good thing?”

His glass clunks onto his desk. She’ll reprimand him about not using a coaster later, but at the moment, she only has eyes for the little smile that plays across his features. He stands, and makes his way behind her, arms slipping around her waist. She leans back against him, letting her free hand come to play with the ring on his finger.

His voice is low when he responds. “I think that would be the best thing.”

“But,” she can’t help but shoot back, “everything about me, though? All the … oddities, as people would put it.”

He nods, and presses a kiss just below her jawline. “Everything.”

She nods, and lets her head fall back to rest against his shoulder. She turns her head to bury her forehead against his neck. He huffs through his nose when her bangs tickle his jaw.

“Sorry,” she whispers, “I’m sure the Führer has more important things on his mind.”

“More important than the thoughts of my favorite Major?” He hums, pursing his lips. “No. Don’t think so.”

She smiles, pushing closer to him. His heat is soothing, and the familiar smell of his uniform comforts her. But she’s antsy. It’s not long before her eyes find the window again.

“Care for a walk?” she asks.

“As long as I have my bodyguard with me.”

He whistles, and Black Hayate rises from his bed.

“Oh, so he’s your bodyguard now, is he?”

Roy nods, pulling away from her. “My previous one left me. Ran off with some man.”

Riza nods back sagely. “I heard that as well. Heard he’s a real sleaze.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he says. “She was that kind of woman. I tell you, not a lick of good taste in her.”

Riza huffs a laugh, shoving at him as he slips on his gloves. Roy grins as he kneels down to clip on Black Hayate’s leash. He holds the lead with one hand, and offers the other arm to her.

“Major,” he says.

She checks all three of her holsters before taking the proffered arm. She takes a quick glance back toward the window—blue skies, puffy clouds—before they slip out the door. The monster in her chest rumbles in contentment as it clicks shut behind them.


End file.
